


Worth a Better Flame

by londonfalling



Series: the twin Castor and twin of Castor [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, First Time, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Incest, M/M, Or Is It?, Pining, Romance, Sibling Incest, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 23:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londonfalling/pseuds/londonfalling
Summary: The night before Temen-ni-gru, Vergil gets a visitor (3V/5D).





	Worth a Better Flame

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write a quick short thing in order to get inspired for a long, plotty VD story in the planning, because I haven't been active in DMC since the third game and could use the practice. Instead, now there's this. Have a cliched plot, feelings and some headcanons with a bigger side of porn that I originally intended. Feel free to comment on any and all mistakes you spot, I haven't really spell checked this at all.
> 
> (Translations are provided at the bottom of the page.)

Fidgeting − whereas ingrained in Dante and his relentless need to sate all his nagging doubts by bloodshed and continuous movement − is not something that is in Vergil's nature. He does come close to caving in to the foreign impulse by sweeping his hands through the spines of the cemetery of tomes he has chosen as his silent guides in this mission (_if only all his advisors were as taciturn_). Usually, the lull of dead voices buried in parchment serves to soothe him; today, everything seems inclined to drown him into the same oblivion which has met the authors of yore that have succumbed to their failures and obscurity. Instead, Vergil transfers the aborted motion towards the cenotaphs of books into reaching for Yamato for the third time this night, drawing the katana out of her sheath to check for imperfections that are never there. Yamato does not require this much upkeep, and while his hands do not shake as he goes through the motions, they might as well with how annoyed he is by his powerlessness in face of his own nerves.

Yamato does not need this scrutiny and distrust for her loyalty. He does not need this either, this alien disquiet and frailty. A touch of his fingertips on the sword should be enough to center him. He is not Dante and Dante needs him at his best tomorrow.

_ Draw, _

_check the weight, _

_sheathe_. It fails to bring him peace yet again.

When he sees his reflection on the saber, nothing seems to be out of order. Truly, these are witching hours.

There _is_ an unnatural quality to the night. Vergil cannot place his finger on it − infuriating in itself −, but time seems to make progress as languidly as tar, as if mocking his inability to lay himself down for respite. Foregoing sleep before a crucial occasion is foolish, a demon's high tolerance for sleep deprivation notwithstanding; when the only true honor to be found in battle is fighting all out, waiving a potential edge, however minor, is akin to a small forfeit. Yet the premonition, the restless compulsion to toss and turn and squirm refuses to be stifled out. He is unbalanced in a way to which he is entirely unaccustomed, a flickering ferociousness creeping just beneath his skin and running on the surface of his teeth, charged and poised to explode. Unlike Dante's, his need to fight is not born of emotions left to run amok and veil any uncomfortable realizations with guts and viscera. His hands, itching for contact, take far too long to remember this tonight of all nights.

Tomorrow, he will raise Temen-ni-gru and hope it is enough.

When he finally decides a short walk (_an operative decision, not a retreat_) is perhaps in order and turns to head out, the apprehension he has been harboring all these dead endless oppressing hours heightens into something tangible. His instincts were true enough; suddenly, it becomes clear he is no longer alone even when nothing in the external world outright announces the presence of another soul. It is a matter of semantics whether, Vergil thinks distantly, this particular presence can be considered a soul or a half of a greater one.

This presence he feels keenly and unerringly, even when the chances of it being here on this exact day are minute at best. Of course, such has been the shape of their fate this far; careening to opposite directions only to collide at every intersection, all pain with little reward. Vergil does not believe in coincidences when they come to his lair smelling like ozone, red flowers and righteous gullibility. Hot iron with amber notes.

“_Dante_.”

And Dante he is. But when Vergil turns toward the sudden apparition, the only thing making the immediate connection is the same part of him that has been flagellating him to push through what needs to be done. He is Dante − the truth is self-evident in the way his nerve endings spark to life, the electricity thrumming in his blood, bones and loins, the way his body sings, and it cannot be questioned −, but he is _a_ Dante.

The brother he bid a bitter temporary goodbye to a year ago was infuriatingly beautiful and completely incapable of heeding his own suspicions or any kind of common sense in his quest to quell what Sparda gave him. Not taking this reluctance personally, as Dante simultaneously turning down everything he is and has to offer, in an exercise in restraint. While Vergil has always been aware that Dante cares no more for humans than he does, Dante has fought tooth and nail to avoid acknowledging the fact. As annoying his self-serving habit of squandering his talents in eradicating demons miles and miles beneath his level in skill is, it is, for the time being, a small-scale activity which should not attract too much attention to him if Vergil does his best to stand out. Yet all pretenses of being above it all fell apart when Vergil challenged him, the provocation blatantly pro forma or not. His fever-bright eyes and the manic cut of his lips had contorted his otherwise admittedly angelic face in a way that would likely have terrified any plain mortal. Vergil, of course, had wanted to kiss his blade of a mouth as much as he wanted to fight him. A holy burning knight, glorious in his violent fury and sweet cruelty.

This is not what he sees standing in front of him. A less observant, and frankly, thus moronic observer would at once attain this discordance to the fact that Dante is now unquestionably older than his twenty years, even by several decades. That is apparent in the fine web of lines corroded into his skin, if the transformation from a pretty youth to a handsomely masculine grown man escapes one's notice, his once translucent features ripened into more chiseled forms. Vergil, however, is not just anyone, and his knowledge of his brother's body could not be more intimate, only more carnal, even by having had intercourse with it. No, Vergil's first observation is the sheer lack of fire. This Dante's temper is stained by a tiredness that has seeped into his marrow and quenched the flames of Dante's passions more effectively than Vergil's frost and deceptively cold shoulders ever could. The utter _dejection_ in him is so palpable that sensing it hits him like a physical blow. Unlike a strike of Rebellion, it is unsettling in its unexpectedness. The root cause of this decay is unclear, but everything else − the rough complexion and the dark furrows under disturbingly empty eyes, the stubble that has seen its expiration day aeons ago − is without a doubt merely a result of it.

For a beat, Vergil is startled, and Dante does not fare any better. Nothing moves until a brief flash of poorly concealed hurt flickers in Dante's otherwise listless gaze. It is gone before Vergil can recover sufficiently to analyze it further. “Vergil,” he intones. Hearing the word spill from his brother's lips never fails to send a pleasant shock in his system, no matter how the dazed the delivery is.

Greetings exchanged, they fall into their routine. Vergil shifts his weight to his feet and assumes a battle-ready position by bringing Yamato up with a flick of his wrist and a tilt of his hips. It is as instinctual as anything gets, really, challenged only by his urge to claim and keep what is his. Dante shuffles too, less gracefully, but the movements are abruptly halted, as if he is all of a sudden reminded of something. He is unarmed, although that matters not, since among whatever rubble he has gone through to lose his spirit he has also stumbled upon his devil trigger. Vergil is surprised at his own excitement of the discovery. Fighting bare-handed (_bare-bodied_, his mind supplies helpfully) is something that occasionally crosses his mind when the pressure of nights spent alone and days melting away threatens to overwhelm him. He thinks about it when he slips a hand in his trousers. The closeness. Knuckles and fists and claws, heated skin against his body. A communion.

But the lack of a more or less conventional weapon is not what had Dante staggered. He wilts back to his original slouch that outwardly holds all the components of his teen clone's confidence but lacks everything that made it true, no longer interacting with his immediate surroundings like he owns them. Dante at eighteen might have built his self-assurance on a tower of lies, but he at least despised his demonic heritance enough to sufficiently believe in them: this Dante does hate himself, there's no doubt about that, but he is also thoroughly disillusioned about the fact. The assertive indomitability is gone with the scales from his eyes. Isn't this what Vergil has wanted all along?

(_Not like this_.)

Dante releases a laugh, apparently indifferent to it sounding convulsed. “Haven't seen your face in decades and here I am, already getting ready to a lil' friendly wrestling.”

Vergil's eyes narrow. Of course he claims time travel. But this is no demon, other than a descendant of Sparda: there is no erring in this. The possibility of Dante ending up in the underworld and aging a significant amount in a relatively short amount of time there is as unlikely as a voyage to the past, seeing how in love with the human realm he tries to be. Mundus is capable in strange magics and Vergil is sure he shall be too, with time and once daddy's frustrating little spells have been dealt with, naturally. Keeping an open mind when it comes to applications of demonic power is imperative, he concedes. “You _are_ different from the brother I met a year ago.”

Said twin measures him carefully. It is surprisingly hard to determine if this is a manifestation of distrust in Vergil or the situation is general. “I am not the Dante from your time,” he begins, voice low and a touch rough, “I could be yours, though.”

Vergil tightens his grip on the base, resisting baser instincts. “Suppose I believe you are from the future. Why are you here now?”

Dante shrugs, uncaring. “Too long a story to tell now, and honestly, I'm not sure I can gather myself enough to make it worthwhile to try and make sense of this all.” When Vergil can spare a portion of his concentration from his hostility − aimed at Dante's grating attitude or his own unsolicited arousal, that is the question −, he does become aware of the wariness. It is as if Dante's setting aside his confusion out of the fear he cannot maintain the illusion of this reunion if he questions it.

Vergil wants to snap at him anyway. Very well, it has been established that his normally virtually unlimited patience has been tightly strung, as of late. He is reckless. He wants to lash out, wringing information out of this unnervingly detached distortion of a brother. He is impatient in his quest for power in a way that clashes with his innate disposition − he has always been thirsty for knowledge, certainly, but never hasty in his attempts of attaining it. Vergil is, first and foremost, a predator, composed and persistent by nature. Whereas seeking old tomes has been a hunt of its own, now he has been combing through libraries, long-forgotten tombs and catacombs at a pace that belies his desperation of keeping safe a brother whose character this frantic modus operandi would suit far less painfully. Desperate times, desperate measures. He knows Mundus, the demon king whom father never quite managed to defeat, is alive. More importantly he knows Mundus knows that Sparda's bloodline has not bled out on the floor of their childhood mansion.

If Vergil paints himself a bright red target, Dante has a chance. Running into him a year ago and confirming he is alive and, to varying degrees of, well has only made him more motivated − _desperate_, his doubts whisper to him in the dead of the night when all he can see are the broken, corrupted, worn-out remains of his brother − to put his plans into motion as soon as possible. No matter how strong he has become through his journeys, there is no chance of him exterminating Mundus as it is. The demon's attempt of finally eradicating all that is left of father on this mortal plane must be drawing near; he needs to combine the power his father has painstakingly sealed away with his own might in order to prevent that, to bring a final end to the nightmare that has been plaguing their family. Perhaps this is how Sparda himself felt before starting the war of his own making. “You've inherited none of dad's virtues, only his kind's vices, “ Dante had spat at him. Though rather nature than virtue to him, it is beyond Vergil how this deep-seated compulsion to protect could stem from anything else.

What makes it all worse is that nothing makes him as unhinged as his other half does even without trying.

Vergil turns the tip of Yamato directly at Dante, holds it hand outstretched. “You are here to fight, then. You will not triumph over me, but you already know that, don't you?” He gets a rueful smile as his answer.

“I always want to fight you, Verge. But this time, I don't even know if I am going through a hallucination caused by an unfriendly spell or some kind of sick delirium tremens type of thing or if I am actually here with you. Doesn't matter, don't wanna waste it anyway.”

“What are y--“

“Tomorrow, you will erect Temen-ni-gru like the cock you are in your fucking pissing contest to gain the power dad locked away. You break the seals with the help of Arkham, whom you try to dispose of as soon as he stops being useful to you, cause he is a hungry bastard. You need me there because the Force Edge and your half of mother's amulet are not enough to open the portal to Hell, so you send him out to invite me to battle you, because you know I always come calling when it's you. Eventually, he will use our fight and stab you in the back so that he can seize the crown himself, and it goes downhill from there. Sorry if I missed anything, it kinda was an eventful day.”

Well. Vergil did not see this coming. While all this is offered up blasé enough, as if Dante is going through a list of things that have, at some point, pierced him, what really catches his attention is the despondence Dante does not seem to be interested in concealing. Is there any fight left in this incarnation of him?

The account on his, for a lack of a better word, _accomplice_ is to be expected. Vergil is nothing if not devoted. He just has nothing to give to the likes of Arkham, no loyalty to be owned. The idea of him being bound to a human by any vow or dept of gratitude is laughable. Somehow confiding in Arkham is infinitely worse. Had he thought he had more time in his hands, he would have never turned to someone else and definitely never to Arkham, whose hedonistic wishes have made themselves dreadfully clear. His eyes keep forcibly embracing the cut of his figure every time they meet, completely unabashed. As if he is assessing a cut of meat. As if Vergil were someone to be seduced by evil. He keeps his desires plain in his expressions, gaze violating and, even with no right of claim, possessive. The man −_ the monster_, plain as a day and as unashamed − plays the game well enough not to touch him with his frame, albeit he lingers closer than any human with their instincts of prey should feel comfortable with.

The sullying miasma does not make him want to strip out of skin and thus give access to raw corium, subcutaneous tissue and all his vulnerabilities, but since the untoward caresses of the man's eyes do not wound him, he cannot regenerate their sequela like collagen and cells. Instead, the intent carries as a small particle of discomfort he is unacquainted with. It will come to nothing − Vergil shall slay him, quick and efficient as ever and drawing no pleasure from the deed, holding himself as distant from the dying mockery of a human as possible, body, soul and feelings. He does not deserve Vergil giving any more thought into it than necessary for the muscle memory to carry out its duty. He is not worth a shred of Vergil's viciousness, a hate too divine to waste. For the time being, Arkham's putrid thirst chafes under his metamorphic heels in his metamorphic shoes, too constant a reminder of his current limitations.

Of course, Vergil ought not to debase himself with a lesser creature's depraved follies. (_He wants you to submit to him, a voice informs him again and again. To spread yourself thin and bare in front of him, ready to be used. A willing body to sink his rotten flesh into, an accessible tool to be used. Which would be more humiliating; the surrender of his flesh or his power being leashed in order to be exploited?_)

He wonders, in his weaker moments. Does his own gaze resemble Arkham's? Are his affections as untoward and unwelcome − does Dante feel the same tangible repulsion when he catches him looking? (_And even if he did not, what kind of future would it all have? Dante is quick to learn new tricks and as quick to burn them out. When Vergil picks something up, he sets out to master it and expects it to stay with him for good. He cannot help but contemplate if he would end up a facsimile of his brother's numerous devil arms, briefly adored and the unceremoniously discarded._)

Just another thing to rattle him when he needs it the least.

Yamato sights softly when she is lowered. Disgust has normalized his blood flow and he is reminded of the urgency of his questions when all of it is not located south. He can agree on no combat, but whatever Dante is after can wait until he is done; the details of what he has told are such that no soul apart from him and Arkham should be aware of them, and Vergil is sure Dante will reveal more if pressed. Just the implications of this, the possibilities… Apparently his plans are easy to read, since the younger-older twin interrupts him before a syllable can leave his mouth. “Listen, I've had more than my rightful share of regrets in this fucking trudge of a life and I'm not about to make meeting my long-lost brother and not lying with him when I had the chance one.” He kisses Vergil's instant sneer off with almost the same casual levity his teenaged counterpart had perfected by ignoring it and sailing closer until they are back to their usual lack of personal space. “Will you? Sleep with me, I mean, mirage or not.”

The whiplash in the mood creates nearly enough tension to break his stiff spine. Dante has abandoned his earlier disbelief and proceeds with frenetic energy at the closest outlet. Some things never change.

“Why are you doing this.” It does not quite come out the question he wants it to be. His brother does not deem it worth a proper answer either.

“quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior,” Dante exhales against his lips. Vergil feels them move into another shape without any conscious thought.

“You cannot seduce me with Latin, _frater_.”

Dante does not make a move to give him room.

“Don't think I have any convincing to do. I know I loved you back here. Love you, in the present day as well. I have a suspicion you feel the same.”

Vergil makes a completely unnecessary twirl with his katana, not lifting his eyes from the hilt. “Odi et amo, then?” The elegy leaves a bitter taste to his mouth it was completely devoid of the first time he pronounced it to his brother in their childhood. It was not that his understanding had been blinded by rose-colored lenses back then; he saw reality for what is was even as a child. There was a time when suns truly shone to him, he can now see. What need did he have for the duality of love and hate?

“_Miser Vergili_,” he thinks. “_As intended by the poet_.”

The next spin is aborted by Dante's finger; it pushes against the flat of the blade, putting the motion to a halt. Vergil slowly meets his gaze.

“Never did hate you, Vergil.”

This close, Vergil could count the hairs dispersed on his skin. The whys and hows of the situation should be more pressing than his urge to do so. Dante´s eyes, familiar and unfamiliar, are nothing like Arkham's. He feels his regard heavy on him, almost a physical sensation. It makes him warm.

Just like his ticks with the books and the katana earlier, the restlessness is transmuted − alarm is refined into lust which is somehow only amplified with how his esophagus closes up at Dante going for his throat with his words. He dislikes how out of control he feels, but he lets Dante close the gap all the same. He palms Vergil's face, stokes his thumb along his lashes, his cheekbone, the bow of his lips before settling his hand on his shoulder and kissing him. It is slower than Vergil would have expected in this situation; they both take their time in sampling how they fit together like this. His cock jumps at the groan he half hears, half senses when he finally slicks his tongue into Dante's mouth and deepens the kiss. The difference in their fighting style has honed Dante's body a weapon − the kind of muscles that spell out strength rather than speed, although Vergil is sure it is more than capable of both. He appreciates it with his hands from the supple pecs to the pert backside he grips tightly. His brother only hums at his kneading. He is even more aware of his brother's very prominent erection when Dante's strong, large hand grabs his posterior and brings their bodies together. One of them gasps, the other swallows it. They drink up the contact until they completely run out of breath, shivering in the cold air with pleasant sweat.

Dante locks their eyes again and slowly retreats from their embrace. He lets Vergil make the choice.

Questions aside −

They both deserve better than this. Literally, better than this cavern of room with its poor imitation of a bed − “Sharing makes a bed softer,” croons a memory of his little brother, small − and the suppressive atmosphere of a house burned down years ago adhering to the corners. Figuratively, better than these worlds that have been keeping them apart and providing nothing of interest in return. There is nothing for him on Earth or in Hell and no place he holds in value, but their first time − with each other and, as far as Vergil is concerned, with anyone, since there is no reason to seek out company when he can have this even only in the privacy of his own mind (_there is no telling with this version of Dante, though_) − should not take place here where Arkham's shadow looms so corporeal.

And Dante, his bright-eyed, naïve fool of a brother, had the gall to call him selfish. There comes a time when Vergil will explain, confess him all the sacrifices he has made for him. For the time being, he has no words to voice his eternal devotion that Dante will hear, so his actions will have to suffice.

One day, he will tell Dante everything and he will understand.

Approaching Dante is too much reminiscent of a battle. To turn to him with a tender gentleness not manifested in how artfully the blade cuts into him is a forgotten skill. For someone who has such a strong grip on himself, Vergil has little recollection of how they have ended up on the bed, distracted by glossy lips and curious fondling. The sway of Dante's body against him has him close to the brink and he has to disentangle: he begins to peel his brother from his clothes. It is not difficult, he still wears so little. Vergil chases the revealing patches of skin with his lips until there is nothing left to uncover; Dante lies naked, cock hard against his stomach and eyes uncharacteristically soft. His lips are a radiant red, but the hue does not stand out as brightly as it did the last time they met, when the red on Dante's mouth came from the blood he spat out after a particularly vicious stab of the katana. It has even spread similarly to the blood; there is color high on Dante's cheeks, but the red has also travelled to his chest as a flush, though the hair makes it harder to distinguish it now than it was with the fluid on bare skin that his brother has been so hell-bent on putting on display. The reaction the color evokes in him is the same in both circumstances. It is a cliché but the thought still rings true − between the two of them, a kiss of a blade is not much different to that of a hungry mouth.

Is Vergil his mirror in this dishevelment too?

They extricate themselves from each other so that Vergil can get up. His legs are peculiarly stable when he procures oil from the equipment he keeps the other side of the room. The size or rather the lack of it comes handy for once, allowing him to return to Dante's side swiftly. Little brother is still there instead of dispersing into thin air or crawling through a mirror into whatever plane of reality he came from that contains a Dante who does not make light on their difference in level of nakedness or the manner in which Vergil is almost shaking when he pours the ersatz lube on his fingers, ready to breach Dante. He does let out a soft curse when Vergil decides to caress the purplish head of his cock instead. Oil mixes into precum, the brush leaving it glistening. Vergil has to hold his breath to be able to hear the slick sound he coaxes out of the length by jerking it, foreskin gladly retreating under his touch to reveal more of it. Dante's ragged pulse drowns everything anyway.

Hypnotizing as that is (_there is power in this_, he thinks), they must move on: the dawn is already upon them. Running his way through the shaft that pulses and throbs so eagerly for him to the taut balls he gets to the perineum and slows for an instant again. Dante's flesh is pliant for him and parts sweetly when he pushes just the tip of the digit inside, relaxation spiced with anticipation. Momentarily, he lets himself draw the moment on and slicks and presses the flushed edge of his hole. Receptive. He drinks in the moans he earns when he resumes the penetration, one finger accepted into his brother's body with relative ease and the second with a shudder and a pearl of sweat emerging beneath the mess they have made of Dante's hair. The relentless thrust against Dante's prostrate with the addition of the third finger is met with a groan that is so naked in its honest need that it is impossible not to palm his own, still covered erection.

Dante swallows hard at the sight and Vergil's stupid useless consciousness ponders, as always, how it would feel and look around his cock. Be as it may, he does not trust his ever-yearning flesh not fail him too early if he were to try it. His fervor is coiled tightly in his lower stomach and he is leaking against the confines of his clothes. It is pleasant and harrowing at the same time.

No, it is not hate and love, even when his love ends up causing Dante pain. Yamato, his fingers entering him. There is no creed and they are no martyrs, but there is a sense of sacrifice all the same. A little hurt is equal to a greater gratification. He may have suffered when he has deliberately kept away from his twin for so long, but he is willing to pay that price for keeping him safe. After Mundus is defeated, they have nothing but time.

If they only had more time now, he would take great delight in making Dante fall apart just like this − slow torment consisting of carefully measured and timed pressure. The wet shine on the rim and the sight of the muscles relaxing under his ministrations, Dante's body working with him could sustain him for days on end. Alas, this has to be enough. The scent of his twin's blood is more than he can currently handle, so sufficient stretching having been accomplished and thus bloodless insertion guaranteed, he slips out of Dante and struggles slightly with opening his pants with oil-slippery hands.

Dante curls his toes, arches his hips. Elegantly crude. “Vergil. Come on, fuck me.”

The wrecked note his actions have caused make him grip the base of his erection hard so that, to borrow Dante's crassness, he doesn't come on the spot before getting to fuck him at all. To be contrary, he shoves a couple of fingers in again. Dante keens. His clutch on Vergil is tight, but he is perceptive enough not to break skin with his nails that rake the expanse of his back. He has to make a quick work of applying the oil to himself.

There is little Vergil would not sacrifice, his or his brother's, to see the look on Dante's face when he finally enters him. Sinking into the _hot wet slick tight_ heat of his hole feels instantly right when so few things do. The head meets some resistance that has more to do with the slightly lacking preparation − instead of the single smooth glide that he has often imagined, he works his way deeper, all they way into his twin, by slower thrusts. The walls give way to his swelling cock until it is fully sheathed in the sleeve of his ass. It looks thick and bright red, encircled by the pink rim.

Perhaps it should look obscene. To others, perhaps it does. Vergil runs his finger on the stretched skin around him, flushed and inviting, begging to be widened further. To him, this is beautiful.

He spreads his hand on the plane of Dante's stomach, the skin warm against his palm. He does not know whether it is thanks to the demon side of their physiology or if mere mortal humans could also sense it, − does not really care enough to know the minute details about the differences between them when it is so apparent that they were so lacking in every aspect, inadequate, imperfect −, but he mulls briefly over the question; that he can feel the deep beat of Dante's heart reverberating against his hand, nearly as sure and strong as if he is holding it directly at his fingertips. He keeps it there when he picks up a rhythm which is controlled but cannot be called gentle. From the way his brother sighs into it and spreads himself more open so that Vergil can gain a better access to his hole, Dante does not seem to mind.

While this form of his differs vastly from the one Vergil had admired some moons ago, it is also a far cry from its first appearance in the room; quivering, demanding, highly responsive and welcoming. Vergil notes drily that he seems to be able to give him life by penetration, now just with his body and not sword. Under normal circumstances, with all his analytical capabilities in their carefully curated order, the difference between the two might be considered a minor one, since Yamato is at the very least an extension of his body, but in this moment it feels monumental in weight. Like taking himself in hand with the immodest fantasies of this exact thing; it would never render him as wanton as the slide of their bodies against each other.

When he rests his hand against Dante's throat to feel the beat even stronger, it registers at last that this rendition of his twin does not wear their amulet. This imbalance is a sudden, for once uncomfortable jolt in his spine; while his half has lain forgotten under his vest, the solace he tends to gain from it now runs cold. The push of his hips turns a degree more punishing in some aimless attempt at retaliation, which does not seem to bother Dante either, but he surprisingly appears to notice something being off even through the haze of sex. Dante catches his neck in turn − _only alleviating the difference_ − and brings his head down so that he can kiss the breath put of him.

Slowly, he begins to relax too, lets his trusts flow more freely. Dante coaxes reactions out of him like he did with his fingers earlier. He is so hot around him and demands more, harder, faster, Vergil, _deeper_. He wants Dante to know how well he is taking it, how good it is, but he does not know how to voice these shapeless thoughts. Whether he should voice them. It is easier to bury the words and let Dante read his body. As they kiss and meet, Dante's length heavy and heady against Vergil, for a moment he thinks he understands. “I've missed you,” Dante murmurs, confesses the shoulder he is facing. His expression is hidden and Vergil is unsure what do with this declaration; when he slows down, his lover almost sobs, hooks a leg behind him and urges him to go on. He bites his lip, submits, and is rewarded with a wild moan. When Dante brings their mouths together again and when the kiss has to be breathed out, his eyes are serene.

“Vergil, _you died_.” The words might not even be audible, but Vergil can taste them from Dante's salty lips all the same, can feel them in how Dante's body moves against his, around him. He accepts it as a truth, and while the depth of his brother's mourning threatens to break something in him as well, he kisses and grinds until the sorrowful blue is again swallowed by lust-blown pupils.

Dante makes him prop himself more upright and slicks back the hair that keeps falling to his wet forehead. Judging by the shaking of his arm, he is very close. Vergil, seized by a whim, grasps Dante's left hand, not consciously paying any mind to the scar running through its palm, only his shudders. He presses his lips to it; his brother makes a tortured sound. A second later, Dante is coming. It is a surprisingly quiet affair. He has treated their relations with a tender reverence, and he does not break the spell in his peak either. Vergil's mouth dries and his thrusts turn snappier as he watches Dante's cock twitch untouched. He is glad he does not have to test if he would be too far gone to stop if he caught him uttering “jackpot” like he half expected, but the need to hear him is even greater than his need to climax. Just when Dante has coated his own stomach with semen does he grip the now oversensitive organ, wringing out exquisitely sensuous noises when he strokes it in tandem with the slam of his hips. The throb between his and Dante's limbs is painful. Dante clenches around him and he knows he will not last.

Vergil must project his upcoming orgasm somehow − he does not have the presence of mind to detect the exact tell −, because Dante locks his legs around him and even in his breathlessness manages to say “No, please, in me.” This is not delivered by the cock-sure panache the Dante of present times deals out commands with (_rasped voice, trembling thighs, sweaty desperation, all his doing_), but the act is as effective as an order nevertheless.

_Ille mi par esse deo videtur --_

He spills deep inside. The violence of it rattles his body, but he is grateful for the intensity, for the sounds he makes must be completely undignified. Dante clings to him and rides it all through with him, hands caressing his spine while he gasps against the vibrating jugular beneath his mouth.

Lying on top of his other half he hears how their panting slowly turns into a single solid pulse. He is too spent and his frame is too heavy to reposition himself so that he could kiss Dante and inspect his well-fucked body inch by inch like he wants to. Instead, he merely feels himself soften while he nestles inside, mind foggy and sated and happy. The surreal feeling does not fade when he eventually detaches himself from Dante's body with a wet squelch that is somehow not unlike the sound it emits when it is derived of Yamato. He admits he parts from him reluctantly. A lazy brush against the sloppy, glistening entrance he has loosened evokes a cry; Dante breathes throatily, Vergil's seed cooling on his cheeks, in him.

He wonders, were Dante a woman, would he hope something to be born out of this encounter. If love could ever become a strength to him, or at least stop being a weakness. Idle thoughts.

When, for the first time in his life, he is out like a light, he still clothed, almost decent. 

\-------------

When he comes to, Dante is nowhere to be seen, and he does not need to rack his senses to confirm that he truly is gone. That is the first thing he registers even with his eyes closed; everything else, like the hour or the rictus sleep has formed his curled limbs into, plays a secondary role. Dante is gone. Back to his own time? To the Dante of the present, if such multiples are possible? The question of whether his brother ever was there as something other than a figment of his imagination on overdrive is answered by the signs of their coupling on the sheets; the only proof of night taking place are the stains and the fact that, against all odds, he feels well enough rested. That merely raises more questions the trails are unable to solve. To die, to sleep.

No more.

He traces the rough cloth, finding the ghost of Dante already cold; his scent is almost non-existent even to his demonic senses. Though the desire for him always lingers, now that he has had him, it has gained a more physical form. Sometimes he wishes he could shake the shape of him from his thoughts. Clear his head. See clearly, if only for a moment. He does not know how to feel about the fact that, given the choice between fornication and the information he could maybe have gleaned from Dante instead of carnal knowledge, he might not pick the option he should.

In the end, he is as alone as always.

_Does this change things?_

_\--- fin._

(I changed the weird formatting I had the first time I posted this and unfortunately lost the word count of 6666. That will not do, so here I am, just writing something to rack the word count back up :D. Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, et quod vides perisse perditum ducas. Fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles, cum ventitabas quo puella ducebat amata nobis quantum amabitur nulla. Ibi illa multa cum iocosa fiebant, quae tu volebas nec puella nolebat, fulsere --)

**Author's Note:**

> The poems included are some of the most famous Roman elegies, composed by the one and only Gauis Valerius Catullus. They are maybe his most well-known pieces and thus perfect for Dante to know by heart; I imagine he has picked something up from Vergil, but nothing too obscure. Here are some extremely quick, literal and inelegant translations:
> 
> Catullus 85
> 
> odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.  
I hate and I love. You, perhaps, inquire why I do so.  
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.  
I do not know. But I feel it happening and am crucified.
> 
> Catullus 8
> 
> Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire  
Oh you poor Catullus, put an end to your foolishness  
et quod vides perisse perditum ducas  
and what you can see to have perished admit as a loss  
….
> 
> Catullus 51
> 
> Ille mi par esse deo videtur  
He, to me, appears equal a god


End file.
